Inside This Machine
by Anatomic
Summary: In precaution of Grindelwald's war, Albus takes in and mentors an ordinary boy named Harry Smith, who begs to become a martyr for the light. Trapped between webs of black and white, the world will destroy him, along with a dangerous, unexpected friendship of one Tom Riddle. Au. 1940.


'_**The best soldiers are the ones who die first'**_

…

**Inside This Machine**

…

**Warnings: **MENTOR Dumbledore, Alternate Universe where Harry _ISN'T _the boy-who-lived nor is he born in the same era as Ron, etc. Nor is he a Potter.

For more clarification, Harry as we know it is a muggle born. He lives in an orphanage much like Tom Riddle, except this Harry isn't as promising. He isn't adept at anything, but he _is _willing. After all, skill bows to ambition and power of will.

Unfortunately, our dear Harry isn't nearly as sane as anyone would warrant him to be. He sees himself as a warrior, oblivious as to just how blind he is. But it's this belief that drives him, and what keeps him alive.

This is a part of a plot device and a justification to his overtly cruel actions in certain instance which may or may not rear its head in the upcoming chapters.

_**Summary:**_ In precaution of Grindelwald's war, Albus takes in and mentors an ordinary boy named Harry Smith, who begs to become a martyr for the light. Trapped between webs of black and white, the world will destroy him. .

* * *

"If I'm such a liability, then take me in. Teach me everything of the light; and I mean _everything. _You _need _a soldier, Dumbledore – one that's ruthless and doesn't hesitate to kill. I can be that person. I need to be."

* * *

Prologue and Continuing; _a day of mourning, a day of change_

_A glimpse in the future_

_He was born lacking; of precisely everything. He was an ordinary child – perhaps even under average. But there was something inside his eyes that had made Dumbledore take him in, and as he fell under the wizard's wing, the pursuit of power was no longer a luxury – it became a necessity to stay alive. _

_When he, a mudblood, stepped foot in the wizarding world, Hogwarts never seemed so cold. And when he had been sorted into Gryffindor of all houses, he looked into the eyes of his guardian and mentor – the proud, twinkling eyes and he almost shook himself in disgust. As much as he was thankful for Dumbledore, he hated him just as vigorously. _

_There is a war brewing. _

_His eyes travelled to each different house, surveying every student, eyes eventually landing onto one Tom Riddle, the subject of Dumbledore's internal conflict, and who he was set to defeat- if all went as predicted. In a game set by titans._

_It was apparent, claimed Dumbledore, that if Grindelwald is to fall, Tom would sooner or later take his place; as such actions would not be surprising for a child containing such hard, cold magic. _

_It was also apparent that, in a moment of impulsiveness and enlightenment had been the only two, pathetic reasons as to why the older man had taken him in, in the first place. He stood proudly, wand clutched in his hand that was half covered by his long-sleeved robes. It was of a light affinity – Dumbledore had made sure of it, and he wore gloves too, which obscured the many furious scratches and bruises and gashes that couldn't have been healed in time. Training had never been so harsh._

_Though it was not Dumbledore's training that had gotten him almost ripped to pieces and whole body littered with injuries; it was his own. Ever since his knowledge of magic, it had captured and enraptured him. It was enthralling, intoxicating and – addicting. He couldn't pull away, not now. Not ever. _

_And perhaps that was what Dumbledore had seen in his eyes; determination, obsession, addiction, and most of all; ambition. But not the sort to crave recognition; but to command it, albeit modestly. It was curious, of all things, for such a child to have such an unrealistic yet…achievable goal. But somehow, the old man had known his efforts. He had known that – with the right motivation –he could move mountains. _

_That was right._

_Dumbledore saw what he hardly saw in all others, inside of him. It was a bunch of dormant, easily disregarded, simple emotions._

_They would all know. That skill or inherited benefits are redundant in the light of determination, ambition and power of will. _

_He was an expendable pawn, but as his mentor wriggled ambition into his veins and as he participated in this dangerous game, his light would shine, and all others would burn. It would happen, he had promised himself. _

_He was a repellent, a broken soldier boy. He was light, and only so. But even he would succumb to the change; when the day falls, shattered by the night. _

_First year within Hogwarts. _

'_This world will tear me apart.'_

* * *

_Glimpse; End. _

* * *

Harry Smith was an ordinary boy in all senses besides some of his aesthetic features. He had hair so dark that it didn't seem to shine in light. He had a straight, 'English' nose and curiously green eyes, followed up by soft, dark red lips and pale, scarred and fragile skin. Although he looked slightly above average with the right treatments, such as a daily shower and a comb or such, the orphanage hardly offered such luxuries. He was, like the other children, unkempt and tentatively untrained with a skinny, slow-growing body. His hair was ever so hard to keep down and his six-year-old eyes were still bright and inquisitive, fresh like a babe's.

Through the tensions and ever growing parentless offspring, the whole orphanage ran amuck as it overloaded with kids and babes they would struggle to take care of.

Perhaps that was to his luck, as Harry Smith had discovered. He had always thought himself to be ordinary, and his grades and performances in the mandatory - subjects such as maths, English and the sciences - were proof of that. Even in the underwhelming orphanage, full of inexperienced children, he hardly made ends meet with his own plethora of knowledge.

He was sitting in a stunted chair as he engaged in small talk with the other orphaned children. Harry smiled when he heard his new friend crack a joke; a lame pun.

Nodding his head to show understanding, he scowled playfully before giggling childishly outright. He could deal with being noisy; the simple lessons were already over and dinnertime had just passed minutes ago and even though nobody was on their full stomachs because of their low budget, the mood was relatively content as everybody sat in a close bundle.

While the place was crowded and in poorer conditions than he would have liked, even in seeing new faces every day, they were relatively friendly with each other. Bullying wasn't something the adults accepted, or something that anyone of them had practiced, even if a bit of teasing sometimes edged close to that line. Because even though some children felt cornered, or rather, threatened – especially the new arrivals – they still needed somebody, as all people did. So, they had enough sense to know that to have someone, you would have treated them how you would treat yourself. With care, friendliness and trust.

He smiled ruefully at the extraordinarily ordinary scene playing out in front of him; friendly banter, adults sitting on chairs and barely giving the children a glance, discussing the latest gossip and what not. He leaned back upon the crusty and flaky wall – with white, faded paint as he fiddled with one of his 'great' finds – a beautiful, dark ribbon. But he was definitely not a fan of such an ominous colour – there was just something about the dark colours that was so sinfully beautiful …and yet he hated them to his very core; both the tainted feeling along with the shade. In conjunction to his peeve, it was also a fact that he had hated the colour of his hair. It was also the colours that angels were described to bear within the bible – of black feathers and all-seeing eyes spread around their bodies. They were ruthless soldiers for his lord, God.

But white, however. He shivered in pleasure. Harry had always loved the colour white – it felt a much more free and splendid colour, and with it being so easily influenced by the slightest taint, it allowed much more change than its counterpart ever would. He smiled benignly at the thought of such a pure colour before something …out of place caught his attention.

His eyes travelled down towards the ribbon that was carded through his fingers – a pure white, almost glowing ribbon. He stared down at it in shock and disbelief, closing and reopening his eyes a few times just to make sure he was seeing right. Moments ago, he was sure; the ribbon was the exact opposite colour – of ebony.

Twisting it and flipping it over, he examined it reverently again and again; it was still white. Harry - now confused but rather pleased with the change smiled quizzically before deciding to wrap it and tie it around his right arm. It had taken around two tries; the second one hardly better than the first, but it was secure and he kept it that way - unwilling to alter it again in fear of creasing the silky, seemingly valuable material anymore. Harry then pulled down his short sleeved shirt over the ribbon, obscuring it from view, a precaution against possible thieves.

His eyes shuffled around the room nervously, hoping nobody saw the glaring difference between colours, or how he had made it a completely different colour. Although he knew they were oblivious to his certain 'oddities', he paid good mind to not allow them to. Because though the orphanage were friendly enough, the community's inhabitants – such as teenage gangs and violent personas in general – don't take kindly to those 'magic' tricks Harry was able to perform sporadically.

He shuddered, remembering the threats and verbal abuse he had received for even having the audacity to glance at them, or the cigarette burns that were pressed against his skin and the knife cuts that ran through his tissues so easily, drawing out crimson blood from the shallow wounds while he stood still in terror, petrified and eyes wide. One of the gang members had thought that he had seen Harry do some '_abra kadabra shit'_, as quoted specifically, when Harry's magic had unknowingly seized up and halted a pebble that was about to connect to the side of his temple, thrown by the said delinquent.

Thankfully it was only known between both Harry and the teenager as none of the others had seen the act come into place, but that didn't mean he wasn't punished and beaten up afterwards for his insolence and sin in lying. Even though Harry, too, was heavily religious – something that was embed into his mind by the orphanage and the mandatory church visit every Sunday, Harry hardly believed he was sinning by lying, as through the whole ordeal, he had been too horror-struck to actually utter a word. He had kept his silence, and silence wasn't a sin – at least, not in his books.

His eyes zoned out as he silently reached up to faintly touch the uneven ridges across his face, striking through the middle-height of his nose where the cold, razored knife had sunk through. His face became cold and stony as he traced along and followed the edges, mood darkening as he outlined the symmetrical knife slashes that were horizontal and almost sickeningly, artistically graceful beneath both his eyes.

Not liking the sudden onslaught of traumatic recollections, he blamed his terrible reign of his mentality and emotions in general. It was odd for him to feel so content with life and then to suddenly recall a horrific incident – as if his mind was against its very own peace.

Harry stood up from his relaxed position and quietly excused himself from the swirling chatter around him, feeling, once again, disconnected and lost. He strolled towards his destination down a small hallway and with a twist of his hand, opened the doorknob and walked inside, closing the door behind him as he swayed and collapsed upon his bed in his extraordinarily small room. He curled in a foetal position and pulled his thin, used blanket up to cover himself, trying to shield himself from the cold as his mind rebelled against his will and replayed the traumatic events over and over within his head. He hugged himself, shuffling his hands to create more frictional warmth. He didn't know why he did so, but it always made him feel better – smaller, inconspicuous. Away from danger.

When his tired eyes slid shut, the freezing feeling of a knife's edge sinking into his skin echoed on through; from reality, and into his dreams.

* * *

It was more than once when he had seen an older, odd man cross his path and it was more than once, when he stared bewilderedly at the rather obscure and eccentric choice of wearing – like wizard robes one would wear to a costume party, but those were rare nowadays. And it was also always on a Sunday afternoon, after he was relieved of his church duties and walking back towards his orphanage.

Whenever the man would meet his gaze, the first was a pleasantly surprised look before a mischievous wink, as Harry watched the figures in the robes dance around in wonder and shock – thinking, _'was he finally going mad'_?

So he'd always, almost every day if he could, sit at that U-turn, still on the concrete pavement, willing to get another glimpse of the mystery that shrouded the middle-aged-looking man. He had auburn, almost blazing hair; tied back in with a yellow piece of string and his eyes held a shining blue hue to them.

They were as clear as day and heavily refreshing to look at from the constant and ordinary dull browns Harry was so used to seeing.

He knew it to be impolite – the intrusively curious way he stared at the elder, but every time he had passed, it was as if – compared to the surrounding adults and children – that that old man was something else entirely. He was something so much more, and whenever he had strode through the streets, it was as if he was the sun the others gravitated to and whenever Harry was remotely near him, he would feel overwhelming sense of _clear, light and pure _power just radiating from the certain man. And in a way, whenever he felt such a conspicuous pull, he also felt a twinge within his heart, in which he knew, was of jealousy.

He shook his head softly; he couldn't even justify that emotion – as to why he felt envious of the red-haired man's power. It was something he doubted with every fibre of his body – that he would never gain what power the old man had, or what mysterious a power it was. It was dormant, but so strong that it seemed to break the dam of its vessel and just ease around its surroundings, tugging every creature and organism inside it, not unlike a hurricane or twister.

And when Harry had waited to get another glimpse of the one who had unconsciously become his idol, it was only a few times out of the weeks he had waited had he actually gotten a proper look… but just a look was enough – a look that filled himself with soaring hope and the power that eagerly tugged him towards it.

So it was within one of those days, where the magic felt so overwhelming, had he subconsciously stalked towards the older man, unaware of his body's movement and mind blank. It was also when he had come across speeding cars, unable to break for him upon the main road. His eyes were still on the older man and he hadn't noticed a thing-except when he saw the panic inside the sky-blue eyes. Harry had barely any time to turn around before the panic also overwhelmed him, as he saw himself to be milliseconds away from being blown to oblivion, shattered into smithereens by the vehicle.

'_No.'_

'_No.'_

'_I don't want to die.'_

There were panic and hysteria, and a desperation that thrummed within him – a will to live. His mind slowed down the situation for him and as everything played in reduced speed, he was also able to watch his seemingly imminent death in vivid detail. He was frozen to the bone and unable to move, even if said action would save his life. This feeling of deep fear, the sensation clogging his throat, was not unlike the time when he had been scarred and beaten by a disturbed teenager.

Not brave enough to move, yet not cowardly enough to shut his eyes in dread, Harry felt his green eyes widen as he watched his impending death - the car, veer towards him. Through the windshield he saw the equally shocked faces of a family inside the vehicle; the father's mouth was half way open, the mother appeared to be screaming and the children terrified.

But as he saw the car inch ever so close to him, to what seemed to be just a few centimetres from impact, it was not he who was crushed.

No, on the contrary, it was the car which seemed to brake at an invisible force; an invisible wall. It crashed into the force field mercilessly as the vehicle scrunched up beyond recognition before the metal and inhabitants almost seemed to twist, resounding an almost teeth-shattering, and goose-bump inducing, squelching of metal being bent out of shape - along with the family of four being crushed without a thought within.

Blood, metal and fuel exploded around him as the chaos and carnage reared their heads. He wanted to scream, as the rogue pieces of metal scraped against his skin, as he saw the dead faces and pieces of bodies belonging to the family that had been in the car, and the blood that smeared against him and his clothes, but his throat was clogged; blocked and his system seemed to fail as if he had lost control of his body.

When all energy and life seemed to have been sapped and forcedly removed from his being, all he could do was collapse towards the ground, powerless and succumbing to gravity. Half-lidded eyes stared at the concrete road riddled with spikes, cogs and oil spillage - a deadly fall. His ears tuned onto some small, crackling sound; the sound a small flame would make. Knowing what would happen when fuel mixes with flame; he shut his eyes and tensed his body, waiting for the burning pain.

Surprisingly, it never came.

* * *

His eyes were closed but he could hear the ambient sounds of chirping birds and insects, and judging by the bright-redness that shone through his eyelids, it was still day time. Perhaps still mid-afternoon, and maybe just after the incident. Or maybe it was the next day.

Week.

Month.

He knew not.

As the pleasant sounds tinkled around his ears, a purposeful cough interrupted the serene surroundings, giving away another person's presence and this one felt dauntingly…familiar.

Green eyes appeared in view as he commanded his eyelids to flutter open, albeit hesitantly, when his line of vision was suddenly assaulted by blinding light.

Still feeling rather disorient he reflexively scratched and kneaded the skin around his eyes, making them itchier than before. He lifted himself up from the hard surface he had been sleeping on; hearing foliage crumble as he accidentally crushed them under his weight. His eyes slowly travelled towards where his ears had pinpointed the cough, and where the looming shadow led to.

Pale face, auburn hair and beard, blue twinkling eyes…

His very own eyes widened dramatically as he felt himself involuntarily gasp in shock. Harry sensed slight anger and annoyance from the man and warily stood up, brushing dried, fallen leaves and dirt from his worn-out, rough fabric of his shirt. He then ghosted his hand over his right sleeve, feeling relief wash over him when he found that the ribbon was still intact and in place. It gave him little comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

His eyes travelled, reluctantly and even rather fearfully towards the figure of authority, cringing at the promised consequences. The man looked to be quite miffed, as if Harry had caused him some extreme inconvenience but knowing what had occurred, perhaps he had. The older man said nothing, standing in silence, staring almost condescendingly towards him.

Harry stared back and the older man seemed lost for words as his mouth opened and closed subtly, as if attempting at finding the right things to say to someone as young as him. He saw the other's eyes close briefly- frustrated - before reopening, resolute.

"Child," he started before a swift pause.

Harry remained curiously silent.

"Child," he heard him repeat, this time with more confidence. "Do you have any idea – of the feat you performed just two hours ago?" Inquiring blue eyes pierced his own.

So the incident had been just a mere two hours ago. Keeping his silence, he double checked his attire to find himself almost flawless with little to no evidence of the accident that had taken place. Unknowing of what to do and not wanting to seem disrespectful or apathetic, he shook his head in reply. And it was the truth – although he knew the destruction he had somehow caused, he didn't know how it had come to be.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore." The man introduced, nodding jerkily.

"Harry," he introduced politely, quietly back. "Harry Smith." He affirmed.

Albus paused again and Harry knew that when adults had that look on their faces it had meant they were in deep concentration or thinking heavily. He could practically see 'the cogs running in the older man's head'- a saying he had read many times in some lenient bookstores and heard from adults. Naturally, it had rubbed off upon him. Although at first he had no idea what half the words meant as he wasn't exactly the most literate person around and the poor education provided by the equally poor orphanage was of little help to boost his intelligence of literature.

Seeming to have finished thinking, a rather weird looking smile crossed Dumbledore's face. It looked fake, forced – like an abysmal attempt at placating an injured, wild animal… or in this case, Harry.

Not thinking much of the forced emotion, he stared unnervingly on once more.

"What you did back there was magic." Dumbledore explained, as if it was just a matter of fact – something as common as oxygen, his hands waving around him as if attempting to describe the subject of matter by body language alone.

Harry's left eye twitched involuntarily at that specific term – magic. Feeling slightly threatened, goose-bumps rose on his skin as unlocked memories unpleasantly resurfaced. A knife, blood and scars. It was so cold. This he hated. The sudden occurrence and flood of memories that took just a small …_something _to trigger, and once triggered, it would all come back again. It scared him and shook him to the core. And he hated it because of that, along with his growing dislike for one Albus Dumbledore. Even if the man had unintentionally brought up a touchy subject that he could not have known of, Harry still couldn't help but feel irrational anger towards the said main.

"N-no," he affirmed, denial dripping from his voice which was now meek, mixed with anger and helplessness.

Before the man could cut him off, he continued.

"It doesn't exist…it…isn't real." The last word was almost spat out, bitterness traced the vowels. He started backing off daringly, not wanting to be involved in a conversation with the man anymore. Tension was rising to almost a breaking point.

He could see a distinct frown appear on the man's mouth. Ignorant, apathetic.

"Now hear me out, child-," a hand wound itself around his wrist, easily winding and grasping around his thin appendage, attempting to halt his movements. Suddenly uncomfortable with the physical contact, he gave a grunt of complaint before deftly twisting out of the man's grasp.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" He all but screamed - eyes wide and expression hysterical. He was afraid – just like that time, _that _time when he had been mutilated, scarred and oh god – everything was getting so _cold_ again and he's finding it hard to breath. He's hyperventilating now, breath out of control as repeated images and reoccurring events flashed through his minds – the family in that car; what had he done?

And it was at this moment, when something lashed out in fear and an invisible force seemed to forcefully whack Albus and physically push him back, a red mark remained on the hand, reminiscent of the damage the energy had inflicted. Harry froze in shock, not noticing tears and snot dribbling down his face.

He saw annoyance bubble up again within the clear, blue eyes.

Suddenly, the man closed in on him and held both his wrists. Something wrapped around him – like a force, or rather, a vacuum, seemingly crushing him. That's when he realized that it the air hadn't coincidentally gotten heavier – it was this man's power. The same energy that he had always felt – what he was jealous of.

He couldn't control it when his flimsy energy lashed back, pride wounded and attempting to protect its master. A growl emanated from Albus.

"Control yourself, child!" He commanded calmly, albeit forcefully. "Control your magic – and yes, that's what you have," he grunted.

"That's what runs through your veins – and that's what KILLED an entire muggle family! Your IGNORANCE and idiocy!"

When Harry couldn't respond, the different emotions a turmoil inside him, Dumbledore continued his tirade, looking irate but slightly regretful for his rough spur-of-the-moment actions. It was only after a moment when he saw the man's eyes zero on the various and countless scars – each of different size, shape and depth. Blue eyes took in the cigarette burns and the slashes beneath both of Harry's eyes, noticing, finally, that those age-long scars were not a consequence from the accident, but events that were lead on years before.

The man's grip loosened, but Harry stayed put. He looked stubbornly downwards, biting his lower lip. His eyes were narrowed as he willed away tears and his brows were furrowed. It wasn't the scars that hurt him now, no. It was the distant memory, the trauma of the terror. It's the fear that stems when the world you trusted – when the people you were naïve to destroys you. And he was crying because he didn't want to seem weak, not in front of adults. Not in front of someone he couldn't trust. Not in front of someone whom he feared.

He bit his mouth harder and clenched his fists tighter, feelings his nails dig into his flesh, unwilling to spill a tear.

Dumbledore pursed his lips, looking unsure of what to do next. He looked like a man stuck in inside a minefield; caught between a rock and a hard place. It was the first time he had gotten a clear view of the child – Harry's – visage. It was apparent that he was littered with scars on his face. He had sent a slight wave of legilimency to learn just how he had gotten those scars. Needless to say, the professor felt disgust well up within him as he watched disconnected scenes play through those abnormally green eyes. That, at least, gave the explanation as to why the boy was so adamant on refusing the existence of magic, even with himself being the sole proof.

A strangled sigh escaped Albus' lips. The fear the boy had had – the fearful, violent reactions he saw the boy have towards the slightest mention of magic…it almost reminded him of…almost of…

_Ariana._

He shook his thoughts and cleared his mind, feeling reason return to his head again. He was above the past. But now it's a case of a similar circumstance – where a situation of the boy's past had destroyed him, his magic already feeling violent and out of control. If left to its devices it would do more than just kill a family. At this rate, Harry would stubbornly destroy himself and Albus knew he shouldn't get involved – there was a war brewing and even creating a slightest connection with an irrelevant, muggle-magic boy can hold to be an extreme disadvantage. Yet Albus knew that he couldn't, under a good conscience, let this chaos and hysteria of energy inside the boy go on; if only to alleviate his guilt for failing his duties for Ariana.

"Harry," he said softly, "You must learn to control magic. You cannot doubt its existence. If you continue like this, it would grow wild and uncontrollable – it will destroy objects – lives. What you witnessed today was of your doing." He hadn't wanted to pitch the blame so easily and mercilessly upon the confused and unstable boy, but if the child was to learn his lesson, he would have to admit his faults - the unnecessary, unprecedented deaths of a family of four. Thankfully he had been there to do damage control and stop the boy from getting further injuries but it also meant he had to mass obliviate the muggles, not to mention transfigure countless things so they appear normal and untouched once more.

Harry was, unintentionally, crying softly now as the accusation of manslaughter hung thick in the air. He lifted the hem of his shirt in order to wipe the snot from his face, uncaring of how unsanitary and disgusting said action was. The man called Dumbledore had wanted him to control his _magic – _the name for the mysterious source of power he had. But could he really? Today's incident was a clear representation as to how _little _control he had and whenever he had dared to delve into the vortex again, he was always too afraid to peruse further . He didn't want to lose himself in the torrent and crashing waves and –

"I can't," he gasped desperately, tone deprecating.

"I-I can't." He repeated, voice hitching. The tears increased. "I can't and I killed them – I killed them because _I was so scared. _I killed… killed..."

His knees gave way but Harry managed to stabilize himself by quickly thrusting himself against an uncomfortable, cold wall. His eyes flickered inadvertently towards the auburn-haired man, whose eyes were no longer the innocent hue of blue Harry had always seen, but a much deeper, darker tone. The world was blurry filtered through his tears.

'_You are so pathetic,' he berated himself._

'_But you are still a child.' Harry stayed silent, accepting his own excuse. _

"You must." He heard the man softly whisper, tone unyielding and holding so much subtext – as if behind the command, held a whole entire story. There was so much pain in those mumbled words.

Suddenly feeling exhausted by a wave of the man's hand, Harry couldn't help but let his eyes slick shut as he drifted off in a dreamless sleep.

* * *

He woke up groggily and once again rubbed his eyes of their sleep. One look and sniff was all it took for him to pinpoint his location inside his very own room located in the orphanage, his previous escapade and breakdown feeling as hazy and fickle as a fading dream. Impatiently brushing the itching blanket off him, Harry stumbled to find his way to his door before twisting it open, a sour taste in his mouth.

Harry scowled when his chest hurt before scratching it impatiently, unable to alleviate the pain. It was physical pain, and something a visiting doctor has identified as acid reflux. It came and went as it pleased, usually attacking him at the most inconvenient of times. Still feeling exhausted and slightly disorient, Harry forced himself to walk across the halls and join the ruckus of the orphanage once more.

Entering the hearty living room, his presence and abrupt entrance was thankfully ignored. A small smile of nothingness came across his face.

'_It feels as if I never left at all.' _

But just when he had thought himself to be trouble-free, a particular care taker – Mrs Orchard - sent him a reproving look that promised a long talk, alone, and after the feast. He nodded succinctly to show he understood her message before diving back into his given bread and cheese, hiding his scowl and foul mood behind mouthfuls of dry, cold food. Licking his fingers out of habit, Harry lifted himself from his spot to reach the water taps, turning it on and thirstily drinking the water, taking relish in the tasteless liquid as it washed and hydrated his mouth.

Time passed relatively quick as he sat back in his previous position, waiting for his peers to dissipate and head to bed so that he could listen to Mrs Orchard's reprimands and get it over with, even if he wouldn't know what he'd do with his time after. There was a curfew the orphanage swore by, using the only sole, working clock as its basis. Sleep at eight at night; wake up seven-thirty in the morning the next day.

Assuming that Dumbledore had known where to drop him off, he had spent approximately half of his day sleeping, breaking his normally sturdy schedule. No wonder why he felt bloody terrible. Harry stared discreetly at Orchard with his peripheral vision.

The old lady was kind but strict, and far more understanding than the other workers would ever be, in Harry's opinion. The younger volunteers of the orphanage were much less empathetic, nor caring, often staring at various children's behaviour in disdain and disapproval, although never really bothering to reprimand or instruct them in behaviour or manners _they _approved of. When the last of departing, sleepy children disappeared– some sending him quizzical glances, other smirking playfully – knowing that he was in trouble - Mrs Orchard approached him, eyes stern, promising of punishment. Or at least that's what he thought.

Surprisingly though, instead of giving him a few more chores to do and an increased curfew, she had knelt down this his height and placed her hand upon his shoulder, worried, brown eyes searched his tranquil-greens.

"A man brought you back unconscious," she whispered quietly, not wanting to rouse the already sleeping orphans in the thinly separated walls. "I had feared the worst – do you know what happened? Do you remember at all? He said you had collapsed out of exhaustion and dehydration, but that hardly seemed believable!"

After a moment of silence, understanding washed over Harry as he coughed at her adulterous implications. Although Dumbledore's excuse was technically true – he had been growing more tired than usual as per day passes and he was feeling rather thirsty after the helping around and fasting within the church.

He shook his head reverently.

"No, miss. M' fine. He-he was a good man. Wouldn't have done those things you think he did."

When she had stared at him sceptically and with narrowed eyes, Harry took it upon himself to clear Dumbledore's name – he was sure it wasn't the only time he would meet the self-proclaimed _wizard, _but future meetings would rely on the older man having a good first impression, and not of him being a paedophile of all things.

Frankly, though, even Harry found his words hard to believe, but even though they had gotten off the wrong foot, matters rectified itself – if only ever so slightly – towards the end of their encounter.

"If he was a paedophile, truly, would you really think he would have bothered to return me?" Harry sighed.

She looked as if she was about to answer before holding back her words, although judging by her reaction, she had taken offense to Harry's rather…insolent tone. He bowed his head slightly to show submissiveness and to appear apologetic. It was an action he had gleamed from older members of the orphanage – those who were more experienced and capable of dodging punishments with skilful misdirection. Although it felt wrong, like a sin, it was an action that had grew on him and as the saying goes, '_old habits die hard'. _

But in all honesty, Harry really didn't want to know what twisted assumptions she had concocted in her mind – perhaps she is kind, yet strict, she seems to be slightly senile and extremely paranoid in the cases of child safety – not that he minded. It was a nice feeling, he had noted a long time ago, to know that there was always someone who cared about you deeply.

He smiled apologetically again, accepting her apprehension as a compliment.

"Sorry for making you worry, Mrs Orchard," Harry murmured, tone asking for forgiveness.

For a few, long second, the orphanage caretaker had continued to stare at him as if analysing his every movement would lead to him A) spilling the beans that he had, in fact, gotten molested, B) Figuring it out herself through detective-like deductions that Albus Dumbledore was, in fact, a paedophile - both of which are false to the highest degree. It took about a minute of deep evaluation had Mrs Orchard finally relented.

"Very well," she sniffed in disdain. "You may head to bed; I trust that you will need some rest after that adventure. Now off you go," she ushered.

Nodding and murmuring a quick goodnight, Harry walked off towards his room quietly and swiftly – just in case she changed her mind and decided to sic extra chores or punishments on him in a last-second decision.

Tip-toeing across the uneven, wooden floors of the hallway, he quietly reached to the doorknob of his room. Slowly twisting it in well-practiced caution and giving the door a light, consistent push, Harry couldn't help but cringe when the rusted hinges let out a goose-bump inducing creak, sounding much too loud in the quiet darkness of the night. Harry paused in his movements. His ears twitched as he struggled to decipher any softer sounds to see if he had, in fact, accidentally awoken someone. After hearing some shuffling of sheets, his tensed shoulders relaxed when the silent ambience of the darkness returned again. Walking in and swiftly closing the door behind him, ignoring the resounding _thud_, he dropped into his bed and pulled his blanket over him.

Harry stared unblinkingly up at the tarnished ceiling above him as his head rested on a pillowcase stuffed with third-handed clothes.

A mild frown marred his face.

Truth be told, he wasn't in the mood to sleep at all. Even if it would have been in his best interests to force himself to slumber, his mind stayed wide awake as it helplessly replayed and fantasized about his current situation and the day's happenings.

* * *

Though his brief meeting with the powerful wizard had a sense of finality to it, Harry was doubtful that that would be the last time he'd meet the man, and also accounting for his would-be participation in what was told to be a 'community of magic, wizards and witches', for if what he had was magic indeed, then the only thing he would leave behind would be his sense of reality.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


End file.
